Curse of the Poe Toaster
by writingrose2008
Summary: This story is about a modern day descendant of Edgar Allan Poe who, on a journey to his grave, learns some startling things about her heritage. update: This story was the winner of Carroll County, Virginia's 'Young Authors' Competition in 2008.
1. Chapter 1

Of course, the great Edgar owns his name and all his wonderful stories and poems mentioned in this. Hope you enjoy it. It is the joy of every writer to know their work is apriciated.

Fear is a natural tendency that has long plagued that human race, particularly in matters of the supernatural. These phobias, both natural and acquired, do often poison the human spirit. Therefore, one can conclude that it best to keep a sound mind when confronted with this phenomenon called fear. Particularly if you wish preserve the mind and to evade affliction by hysteria and, at length, madness.

I, Elieen Poe, had always considered myself a level-headed woman. Although I could, at times, display a fierce temper when intellectually challenged. I was not easily provoked into a sudden display of acrimony. Nor was I, for the purpose of events that will later be revealed, subject to the many commonplace stereotypical phobias that so often disabled the modern public from living a more integrated existence with the world around them. I had sought, in my 28 years of existence, to rid myself of all natural fear. Much of my recent adulthood had been spent seeking conquest of the phobic madness and the invincibility of fearlessness.

These endeavors had been, for the most part, successful. However, my quest for more worldly necessities, such as a fulfilling occupation, had been a complete debacle. Writing had been my grand passion since the days of my youth and thus I pursued the fantasy that had long since enticed me. Each of my works was a piece of my innermost soul, like that of a lost lover who had gone astray. Yet each of the works my soul could produce was quickly rejected by the people of cold, remorseless time.

It was due to these recent failures that I was forced seek a supplementary occupation. The most recent of my wondering years had been passed within the solemn halls of the prestigious University of Virginia. Though the title of 'professor of English' did little to mend my mortally wounded spirit, lack of a better offer and necessity of money and worldly possessions compelled me to accept the title and maintain it for may years. Being devoid of most caring and maternal instinct, I quickly learned to detest the job and keep my endeavors of social intercourse to a minimum. How the pen and the lonely, blank pieces of paper that adorned the outermost regions of my desk haunted my throughout my day!

It was in those days as well that I developed a fascination for literature in its most depressing form. I acquired a taste for the tragic tales of the days of yore and to read, in my free time, the legends of souls less fortunate than I. My sad countenance delighted in their sadness and these tales became a great source of comfort in my lonely hours of self pity. The most grand and mercilessly tragic tales were those of the late author Edgar Allan Poe.


	2. Chapter 2

Again, Edgar Allan Poe own his name and works. The Poe toaster also owns his own name.

Through many painstaking endeavors in genealogy, I was able to discover more about my literary ancestry. I found that I was descended from Richard Herald Poe, brother of David Poe, Jr., who was the sire of the literary master whom I so admired. Though he was raised by John Allan from his early boyhood, he was never able to adopt the name of his paternal figure. Instead, he took as his second name as a sign of his love and devotion to his adopted family.

Upon reading all of these facts I contemplated and, at length, decided to call the eccentric writer my 13th cousin. (The number 13 having nothing to do with actual descent, it did, however, summon cretin superstitial phobias among all who heard it.) Despite questioning the questioning of those around me, I became, and am to this vey day, proud of the heritage passed down through the ages to me by my exceedingly talented cousin.

Of all the mysteries that surrounded my estranged relation, the mystery of his death is the one that aroused me the most. I had great trouble in accepting the commonplace rumors of alcohol poisoning. In short, I had to believe that someone who wrote such beautifully eloquently eloquent works knew his limits in worldly poisons. Though admittedly, he did partake of alcohol. I did not believe this to be the cause of his untimely end. Thus, my own investigation was begun into the causes of his death.

In vein, my efforts were spent among books, the biology lab, and in the dorm in which he had spent his years in the University. One by one I tested theories and one by one they were all, at lest to my satisfaction, disproven. Yet my quest into the unknown continued. It became not just a burden of proof to myself, but a need to prove to the world that my great ancestor was not driven into an alcohol induced death.

It seemed my searching would lead me nowhere but deeper into the darkness of ignorance until at last there came light. It came in the form of an article written in a local newspaper. It read thus:

_Baltimore- The legend of Edgar Allan Poe, one of the greatest mystery writers of all time, lives on even hundreds of years after his death. Perhaps one of the greatest mysteries of all time was not written by Poe, but one he left behind. His death remains to this day unsolved._

_Every year on the anniversary of his birth, the grave of the poet is decorated with three roses and a bottle of cognac. The bottle is always found to be opened and a single glass missing. It is said that the missing shot is used as a "toast" to Poe. In recent years, messages have been found, always making references to Poe's most famous works._

_Numerous scientific tests have been performed on the items left by the so called "Poe Toaster." None of them have ever yielded any physical evidence or any clue as to the identity of the mysterious figure. For now, it remains one of the many mysteries left behind by a man considered one of the father's of the modern mystery novel._

Upon reading the article, my mind was set that I had to venture to the sepulcher of my cousin. The calendar in my office noted that it was 16th day of January. I had three days in which to prepare myself into the unknown world of the deceased. Though I was not frightened, an uneasy feeling came over my fancy that would not cease. It plagued as the plan formed itself in my ever-curious mind to unravel at least one of the mysteries I had attempted so feverishly to solve.


	3. Chapter 3

As I have stated before, I do not own the names in this story.

At last the arrangements were made and I bid farewell to the University, the institution in which I had no desire to return to or step foot in again. My journey to Baltimore was not a particularly long one, but in my anxious state it seemed to last an eternity. I settled into my hotel room, which was only a few miles from the sculpture of my cousin that I was to visit the next day. My wait began to elapse slowly. My unoccupied fancy began to wonder off onto a more dream-like state, the fancy that overtakes most writers while they pen a story. During which, the outside world and other surroundings disappear. Existence becomes only pen, paper, and the words they create. All these things work together like the great elements of earth, water, and fire which seem to revolve around the author and mind which is creating.

For the first time in several years, I found myself writing. My soul was pouring forth onto the blank sheets of paper. The hours slipped away and of the world my lifeless body inhabited drifted away and the ideas gathered into my countenance. My heroine, the setting, and a twisted plot formed themselves as I continued to write into the late hours of the evening. I became that night a slave to the pen and its whiles. The sound of my pen scratching against the delicate sheets of paper did not cease for even an instant until my eyes could no longer focus upon the paper and the words I wrote and I was forced to succumb to heaviness of my eyelids.

I slept little that night and the next day. Anxiety and restlessness plagued the muscles of my ravaged, sleep deprived body. Little atonement was to be found for my cursed existence, save for that which could be provided by writing. When I picked up my pen again, I was immersed in a new world far away from Baltimore. It was a world that I both created and controlled. Nothing was so far out of my reach as it was in the hash reality myself writing. In this world, I was master and was appreciated for the skill I was sure that I possessed in the depths of my countenance. I was truly a writer in this new, strange place even if I was not considered thus in the grim realm of reality.

Time crept by at an excruciatingly slow interval until; at length, I bare the silence in the lonely hotel room no longer, even with the company of my work. My excursion into the streets of Baltimore was short. I venture into a small store and purchased an arrangement of differently colored roses and an aged bottle of cognac, both of which were to adorn the grace of my cousin. It appeared most unusual for spectators, I suppose, to watch me walk about the streets with nothing but these items in my hand. Yet, I felt no shame in walking through the cold streets. My every move was for the sake of my ancestry and to satisfy my aroused mind.

As the sun began to set, I stepped into the graveyard and sought the tomb of Edgar Allan Poe, my unfortunate 13th cousin of the days of yore. My eyes searched for and found the earth that marked his grave quickly. The statue rendered in his likeness could be seen throughout the grounds and made his place of his rest easy to find. I sat on the grassy ground below the statue and the large headstone that was adjacent to it, not once considering the notion that my prolonged presence could evoke angry spirits in the land of the dead. Not once did the unfriendly phantoms make themselves known to my fancy while the sun hung over my misplaced being.

Complete and utter darkness fell over the night sky, the kind of black that I felt must be experienced in oblivion throughout eternity. Only the faint shadow of a sliver moon hung above my head. The rest of the world became hidden by a black mass of clouds, determined to block my sight into the world into that surrounded my. A thick mist of also fell upon the cemetery and surrounded me and the tombstones, the last things left to mark the lives of those long since gone. Though no rain had fallen in the past days since I had been settled there, thus I began to feel a strange presence begin to pervade the air along with the fog-like mist. A chill slowly crept into the night air that ran eerily down my spine.

Though I was not subject to many of the supernatural fears felt by many, the scene laid out before me frightened me down to the core of my being. I began to shake profusely from both cold and fear, though I had no way to distinguish the reasoning behind each convulsion. It was them that I turned my attention to the friendly bottle next to me. My hand moved quickly toward the top of the container and removed the cap. I took a slow sip of the dark, amber colored liquor, allowing it to warm and sting the back of my throat and the warmth to slither down into my chest. It took only a sip to satisfy me, as I did so scarcely imbibe alcohol. I was calm after that for a while and was not so much aroused by the unsettling things happening around me.

Time passed slowly and my surroundings grew darker and more chilling. The fog grew thicker, like ghostly apparition all around me. Each seemed to center around one of the forgotten stones before me, which only added to the notions that I was not alone in the place of the dead. My eyelids seemed to notice this, as they began to sag down over my eyes. The previous evening of little rest was quickly taking its toll on my numb body. The chill seeping down my spine did nothing to rouse me and I could feel the poison of sleep creep into my mind and into my limbs.


	4. Chapter 4

A while later, my eyes shut in defeat of my long battle with my haggard body. My mind remained conscious, however, of the dark and mysterious noises around me for a long while after my surrender. I felt as I was asleep, but in a trance deep within restless fancy. I could feel myself become at one with masses of fog around me. My body and countenance drifted into a state I had never experienced before. All suddenly became dark and quiet around me and I neither felt nor saw anything for a length of time that I cannot, to this day, measure. For these was no sense of time or being in the trance I was being pulled into.

When I thought I had returned to myself and became once again aware of my surroundings, it was to a startling sight. My eyes opened to note the presence of a dark figure standing before my knelt body. It was completely covered in long, billowing robes that hid any natural shape the figure may have had. A soft gasp escaped through my pressed, chilled lips. I had not heard or saw anything before to foreshadow the phantom's presence. The convulsions of my frightened body returned in an instant. The sight of the figure frightened me beyond anything I had ever seen in the course of my being.

Upon hearing another gasp from my startled countenance, the phantom turned downward toward me. Two black, fierce orbs met my frightened gaze. I felt burned by the smolder present in the orbs of the phantom, as if a fire has began in the pit of my stomach. Never before had I seen such ghastly things intent on looking at me. I was in shock, almost hypnotized by the fire in the figure's eyes. Unable to speak or to move, I looked helplessly back into the pits of fire fixed upon me.

I watched as the phantom laid three single blood red roses on the grave of my cousin and the two smaller stoned next to it, which were meant to symbolize his beloved wife Virginia and his mother-in-law. The figure poured itself a glass of a golden liquid from a bottle that it held in what appeared to be a hand. The moon reflected its hidden silver glow momentarily upon the cemetery as the figure held a glass up to the black evening sky.

"To the pen," I heard the phantom whisper as if making a toast, "And to all who yield its power." In an instant, the glass was pulled back down from the sky and the cognac was drained from sight. Upon completing this, the figure knelt down upon the ground and poured the remainder of the brandy onto the ground. The attention of the phantom then sifted to me and still full bottle at my side. "Have you come to toast with me?"

"Yes." I answered finally out of my trance and suddenly able to speak, "And to learn who you are."

"Toast first," quoth the phantom. "All will be revealed in time." I nodded and obeyed the phantoms ordered. The liquid of my bottle soon mingled with that of the figures into the earth above my cousin's coffin. Upon completing this ritual a, pale, ghastly hand became extended in my path. Without contemplation, I grasped the ligament and rose myself off of the ground. The feel of the hand was as stiff and cold as any corpse I had ever felt. My grip quickly loosened on the phantom's hand once I was off the ground.

"Now the toast is made." Said I, "Who are you?"

"What reason have you to know?" Implored the phantom, "you are neither related to the great author nor a yielder of the pen."

"But I am," I countered. "Edgar Allan Poe was my distant cousin. I am descended from his father's brother."

"Then you are not how I expected," quoth the phantom thoughtfully. "Tell me, cousin of Poe, what is it you do?"

"I am a professor of English." I answered, suddenly ashamed," at the same school that my cousin attended."

"Things are not as they were before." The phantom observed, "can you not just simply write to make your living?"

"I cannot," I answered meekly. "My books are not widely accepted."

"It is a curse," sated the figure. "It was passed on you by your ancestor. The urge of the pen is strong inside your family's blood. Yet poverty is as well."

"Indeed," I said with a heavy sigh. "but…how do you know all this?"

"The curse is mine as well," replied the phantom." In the days before my death. Now I stand here, on the anniversary of my birth. Here, before my grave, I watch my fame from a distance. Yet, I shall never know its yield, such is my curse…." The words sent a fresh set of chills down my spine.

"You cannot be…." I gasp

"I am." Quoth the figure, "your unfortunate cousin. Now, a mere phantom who walks the earth in ignorance of his own fame."

"Cursed?" I implored, at last allowing the words to sink into my head.

"Cursed," my cousin repeated. "Just as those before me and those who will come after."

"Not I." I said quickly, "I don't write anymore."

"You will," said he. "Dear cousin, you will until your cursed existence is ended. Then you too shall haunt the earth, but fear not. Death is not as frightful as the living believe nor, truly, is this existence." His words were smooth and I did not doubt their truth. I found myself more at ease, but with hundreds of questions pervading my mind.

"Then if you are so wise in matter of both life and death now," Began I. "Tell me, why do we toast that which has cursed our existence for so many dark ages?"

"You shall know when the time comes," answered my cursed cousin. "Why does the rich man toast his gold? For surely it destroys him. Why dose a murder thirst for his victim's blood? Will not the taste drive him mad?"

"I'm afraid I shall never know." I said desperately. "I fear ignorance now, even as I fear this curse."

"Fear nothing," said he. "For all that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream."At that moment, a rush of chilled air rushed upon me and when it ceased, the phantom was gone.


	5. Chapter 5

My eyes closed and opened once again to find myself sitting in the same place as I had been what seemed like an eternity ago when I had gone from the world. Upon looking farther, I noticed the strange fog had gone and the moon now shone brightly in the night sky. Dawn was about to pierce through the darkness. I remembered the night's events a dazed, dream-like state of mind. A disheartened thought then entered my fancy. Surely I had slept the entire evening to ruin. What my mind had conjured had been a dream and nothing more. I would have to wait another year to learn of the figure that yearly honored my cousin.

As I began to rise, something fell to the ground. I looked down and saw a small piece of parchment that had perched itself on my person. After a few moments of silent contemplation, I knelt down and snatched the object and brought it forth to my eyes. Inscribed on it was a quill-written sentence that read thus: 'All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.'

It became apparent to me at that moment that the things I had seen and heard that evening were real. It was not a product of my imagination, but had came to pass. I had ventured to a world that most would not dare to enter and received a warning from my cousin. I was cursed, doomed to ignorance of my own fame.

Years have passed since my first interview within the realm of the dead. My cousin Edgar's prophecies have all proven to be true thus far. The urge if the pen is even stronger in me than before and likewise the refusal to accept my books grew as well. I remain at the University of Virginia and shall likely be there until the darkness of death engulfs me into the abyss of my family's curse.

Then, I know I shall be greeted by a familiar voice. Once a year, we shall walk the mortal world on the anniversary of our birth. Together, we will put a blood red rose upon the tomb of our bodies and toast. For we toast not fame, but the pen,the mystical and haunting object that has been our blessing and, likely, our curse.

"All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream."

Edgar Allan Poe

The


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